"And now," Max cried, "Let the wild rumpus start"

I'm inherently a bit wary of movie adaptations of books that I've loved since childhood. I think Hollywood ruined James and the Giant Peach and The Witches, two of my favorite Roald Dahl books. Charlotte's Web - sorry Dakota Fanning, but you are NO Fern. I'm going to pass on Tim Burton's take on Alice in Wonderland because I'm convinced that it's one of the few stories in which a darker Burtonesque adaptation is just...well, passe. Burton has done it before and ruined Willy Wonka, I'd love it if he'd just lay off my childhood and find a new story to tell. So help me God, if they ever turn Goodnight Moon into a box-office extravaganza, I might join a protest.

Last Sunday, I fell upon a New York Times article about Spike Jonze's journey in making Where the Wild Things Are. I should say - I loved this book to pieces when I was a kid. Even with the bland color pallette, I loved the illustrations - Maurice Sendak became one of the first illustrators I could name off the top of my head. I understood the significance of Max as a character, as well as his relationship with his monsters - even at a really young age - and I just fell into the camp of people who just got it when it came to WTWTA. It's about imagination, about a child's discovery of the adult emotion of loneliness - and how children deal with it. And along with Christopher Robin, Holden Caulfield, and Scout Finch, Max was a key example I used for a senior Children's Lit paper in illustrating how books have best described the fragility of childhood itself. So when I saw the article, I instinctively built my wall up - I thought "my GOD they have ruined it all. Great, my kids will NEVER get it like I did. Another Shrek knockoff."

But after reading the article, I really was excited to at least give this movie a shot. Then I saw the trailer. And the other trailer. And the featurette about the making of the movie. And now I'm super-pumped to see this - I think Spike Jonze, for lack of a better term, GOT it. This is what film students should study to find out why we bother adapting books into movies in the first place.

So I have now found the perfect formula for convincing Molly to spend an actual $10 to end her 2-year absence from the theaters. Take one quality director who has made a career of using his overactive imagination. Add a classic story and hire a superb writer - say, Dave Eggers - to write the screenplay. Involve the original author and illustrator at every step of the process. Fight the studio to make a film that keeps true to the integrity of the original work. Refuse to dumb down a story for children. Also refuse bright lights, vivid colors, and other children-trapping visual tricks unless germaine to the story. Hold the impact of the original work on its audience dear, and don't release it until you feel it's ready for that audience. Finally, set the trailer to Arcade Fire.

And then you've got Molly in cinematic tears...at the TRAILER.